


The Quiet of the Railway Station

by vojir



Series: Railway Station 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU Fic, Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, regular joe castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vojir/pseuds/vojir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel doesn't like public transportation. Fortunately for him, Dean is a very good mechanic (among other things). (Pre-slash for now. Unfinished.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel had never been a “public transit” sort of guy. Cars, sure. School buses, okay. (He was plagued with motion sickness as a child. The amount of times his parents had had to pull over so that he could puke into a sewer grate was staggering.) But trains, metro, street cars? No way. There was something about the vague smell of alleyways and the uncomfortable proximity to complete strangers that totally put him off.

This had never been an issue before. His family, while large, was fairly well-off and easily afforded cars for each of Castiel’s brothers and him. When he flew the coop, he took his halfway-shabby Margot-Tenenbaum-esque Toyota with him to college and his various part-time jobs had kept it running ever since. He didn’t overuse it. He didn’t underuse it. He tried his best not to spill coffee in its cushions and vacuumed the crumbs from out of its cracks on a semi-regular basis.

The problem was that he had never really been a lucky guy. Luck had come naturally to his brothers, in a way that baffled and confused him. Castiel, as a kid, would fall off his bike attempting the same thing his brothers had just failed at and get a broken leg instead of a scraped knee. ‘Fragile,’ his mom called him. Told his teachers. Smoothed his hair and kept him inside while the others played outside.

He developed a paradoxical and insatiable greed for adventure, while simultaneously developing deep-rooted fear of the unknown. He had struggled with it for most of his (what some might call) adult life, which really only happened to be the first few years of college. A writer, he told his parents. I want to write. 

‘I want to die,’ he thought mournfully, staring at his car. In the course of a week, everything had gone wrong. At first it was just a few tries to start it up; then it started making a weird clanking noise and leaking smoke if he drove for more than twenty minutes. Finally, last night on his way home, the poor thing had given a mighty, sputtering cough and gone completely silent.

He had been forced to leave it on the side of the road a few blocks away from his rundown apartment, on a street that was notorious for its hit-and-runs. It was as he’d feared; the left mirror along with most of the paint along the side was gone. 

Today was not the day to deal with it. He had several classes to go to, as well as a maybe-date that he still wasn’t quite sure about. The girl had said ‘sure,’ when he’d asked if maybe she wanted to go see a movie sometime. Wasn’t that how it worked on TV? But didn’t the girls respond more enthusiastically? She had given him her number, and he’d called after maybe three hours. His roommate (an abrasive but loyal individual by the name of Chuck) said she was really into him, but Castiel didn’t have much experience with “really into”. Girls that didn’t act like his sister confused him.

So tomorrow, then. Tomorrow he would find the nearest mechanic and find out whether or not his trusty old Toyota was worth saving. In the meantime.

Public transit.


	2. The Gospel Whiskey Runners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel makes some inquiries, and sets a course for FUN. (He also talks to Chuck a little bit, and it's revealed that Chuck is something of a drunkard. Oops.)

Castiel took a deep breath and mentally catalogued the schedule for the day. He had walked the short distance from his apartment to the pathetic Toyota huddled on the side of the road, but walking all the way to school wasn’t a viable option. The college he went to (mediocre, but he worked hard) was several miles away, and the sky was an ominous shade of light gray that suggested some sort of rain was in the near future.

He sighed and pulled out his phone to call Chuck. The dude was as dirt-poor-college-student as they came, but he rode the bus most days (said it was good for picking up chicks, though more often than not he came home complaining about crazy homeless guys and drunks). Castiel figured that if he had someone else to ride the bus with, it wouldn’t be so bad.

Chuck was still asleep when he called. He had been out late the night before, in a bar a single bus ride away. The aforementioned “chicks” he had been trying to pick up had been notoriously absent, but he’d made the best of the evening with what he had, which was forty hard-earned bucks and a bartender who was inclined to get him drunk because apparently he was kind of funny. So he’d collapsed into his bed at around three in the morning, missing Castiel’s mournful walk home and morose cup of tea and attempts at homework. 

Chuck rolled over and groggily slapped the phone a few time in an attempt to get it to stop making noise. When that didn’t work, he grabbed it and rolled onto his back, sighing heavily into the receiver.

“H’lo?” he mumbled, wiping his (constantly tired-looking) eyes. No matter how much sleep he got, he always had deep purple circles that stubbornly refused to go away. That, combined with the fact that he usually didn’t get much sleep, led to a lot of “you look really tired”s and Chuck’s automatic and sarcastic “thanks for noticing”.

“Chuck,” came Castiel’s gravelly voice. Cas’d grown from a skinny, nervous child into a scruffy adult that wore questionably tattered clothes for having come from a moderately wealthy family. Hand-me-downs was his explanation, but he was easily the thinnest of the bunch and not a very convenient height for that sort of thing. (Too tall for Gabe’s clothes, too short for Uriel’s, too practical for his dad’s, etc.) “What bus do I need to take to get to school? And please don’t tell me you’re still in bed. I heard you get home last night, and it wasn’t fun.”

Chuck groaned loudly and looked around, checking for vomit in weird places.  
“I cleaned it up before I left,” Castiel said. He’d done it enough times that he knew the drill. “It was really gross. You had some decidedly strange beverages at that bar.”

“I know,” Chuck replied, grimacing as the hangover decided to make itself known. “And I’d say I’m sorry, but you already know all that junk. I’m taking the day off to, uh-” he searched for a good excuse - “finish a big essay that’s due tomorrow. Just take the 4. It drops you off like a block away.”

Castiel sighed into the phone, long enough that Chuck rolled his eyes and just hung up. The dude could use some public transportation; he was wound tighter than a mattress spring. Or something. Chuck was too tired to think of a good metaphor. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

Still sighing into the phone, Castiel went in search of a number four stop that was probably going in the direction of the college.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo. Hold On by Gospel Whiskey Runners. WHAT A GREAT BAND NAME? I'm a bad person. Sorry.


	3. I Believe in a Thing Called Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel runs into Dean. Literally. Also, Dean doesn't do a lot in the way of activities but he sure does a helluva a lot of thinking about the past. Convenient!

Dean had never really looked the part of “older brother, bread-winner”. He’d tried a few times, to the dismay of his classmates and friends, but it had never worked out. He always ended up rolling up his sleeves in an untidy fashion or getting mustard on his nice jacket. So he gave up after a few awkward afternoons of rearranging his slicked-back hair and just went with the bad-boy image that seemed to come distressingly easily to him.

It wasn’t his fault that his dad was the exact same size as him, or that they were too poor to really afford brand new clothes for anyone but Sam (who deserved them more anyway). And heck, hand-me-downs are vintage, right? Plus, his dad’s leather jacket was pretty much indestructible. It had survived countless minor explosions (experiment related, honest) as well as a couple of (mostly controlled) fires. And, well.

Technically, you could say that Dean and his little brother Sam were orphans. I guess. If you were being rude. Dean preferred not to talk about it, and Sam (while definitely the more touchy-feel-y emotional sort of the two) clammed up really fast at the first mention of it.

Of course, Dean called Sam his little brother, but Sam was only about four years younger. At the moment, he was a senior in high school, set to graduate with flying colors and already accepted into some prestigious college. Kid had always been a brainiac. (Dean was more proud than he cared to admit.)

John, their father, had died when Dean was eighteen. ‘Convenient,’ Dean would joke with his friends, but really he was just relieved. Relieved that he was an adult, and that their family had been poor enough that Dean had gotten his first job at fifteen. So Sam didn’t have to go into foster care. They didn’t lose their house (though it was close, at times). Sure, Dean put school on hold so he could work a part-time job on the weekend and a full-time job during the week. Sure, Sammy got really good at making himself pasta for dinner. But they did okay. And now that Sam had a full ride, Dean was maybe going to be able to start thinking about higher education for himself.

He almost felt like he didn’t need it, though. He could just quit his part-time job and work exclusively as a mechanic. It was kind of his dream job, though the customers could be nicer. And the cars could be Porsches and Corvettes instead of rusted Hondas and Toyotas older than him. But hey, the pay wasn’t half bad and his boss was a pretty cool older guy named Joshua who wasn’t actually around that much. 

So today, during his lunch break, Dean had made the executive decision to check out the local college. It was pretty small, public, and (according to his online research) actually pretty reputable. That was gonna make it a little rough, but he was willing to work pretty hard and he already had the luxury of time, a steady job, and a place to live. The only thing he wanted to know was if the campus was up to par. (And maybe how hot the students were, shut up.) Whatever his excuse was, he was going and that was that.

He climbed in his car just as it started raining lightly; more sprinkling than anything. The wipers squeaked quietly against the windshield as he drove the couple of miles to the main campus. Dean sighed when he saw that the parking lot was nearly empty, before remembering that it was likely because it was eleven on a Thursday: professors have lunch breaks too. No big, he wasn’t here to talk to any of them anyway. 

He climbed out of his car (a few years old, nondescript, in perfect condition except for a few scratches and dings along the side from when Sam was learning stick), shutting the door carefully before jamming his hands in his pockets and making his way towards the big courtyard at the center of the campus. He had just reached the sidewalk when a (kinda rumpled) guy who was staring down at his phone and not paying attention at all ran right into him.

“Sorry,” the guy said quickly, “I’m so sorry, excuse me --”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean chuckled. The poor dude was wide-eyed and wild-haired. “Are you lost?”

“Oh, no, I’m just,” the guy stammered, fumbling his phone into his (trenchcoat?) pocket. “I’m late for class, and I had to take the bus, I’m sorry I ran into you I really have to go--”

He said these last words as he ran towards one of the college’s buildings, trenchcoat flapping ridiculously in the light breeze. Dean couldn’t help but laugh quietly to himself and shake his head as he gave himself a tour of the rest of the campus.

He had to admit, though, the guy was pretty hot. In a disheveled way. (That was best kind.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SLOWLY GETTING LONGER??? SLOWLY????  
> apologies for dean's characterization. still feeling this out.


	4. In Which There is a Solid Bumping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get your mind out of the gutter. It's a meeting.

Castiel wasn't used to being late. He wasn't used to being on time, really, either. He was used to being ten to fifteen minutes early and fidgeting in chairs because the room was empty because even professors usually arrive only five minutes before their class is supposed to start (especially if it's right after lunch). So bumping into some poor guy on the sidewalk was just icing on the shitty cake that had become this Thursday. He had barely had time to apologize and run off, never mind greet and/or talk to what was obviously a fellow student. Chuck was always saying that Castiel should get out more, make more friends. And while Castiel certainly agreed, it was much easier said than done.

And it was raining. Usually, Castiel liked the rain (as much as anyone who is mostly prepared for it can). But today the rain seemed like a last fuck-you from some vengeful God. Castiel took a few moments to compose himself as best he could before he stepped into the classroom. It was a fairly small college, so even the bigger classes only had at most a couple hundred students. The one he was about to walk into had, on a good day, around ten. It was a higher-up grammar class. Most people didn't make it, simply because they couldn't be bothered to take the classes leading up.

He smoothed his hair down and brushed some of the rumples out of his jacket before opening the door, expecting a few pairs of eyes to turn towards him. He got an empty classroom, with the rain pattering gently on the windows across from him.

Frantically he pulled out his phone, re-mussing his hair as he scrolled through his email. Which is actually what he had been trying to do when he ran into that guy outside; this professor had a habit of canceling class after lunch and taking a long weekend. He usually sent an email, or, if Castiel had been his usual on-time (that is, fifteen minutes early) he could have caught him just as he was leaving.

Instead, he found the email in his spam folder, buried under several perplexing offers for some sort of enlargement he didn't really want to think about right now. "Snow up on the mountains," wrote the professor. "Taking a long weekend. Leaving after lunch. Study hard, kids."

Castiel really didn't like this guy that much.

Slump-shouldered and just as (if not more) disheveled as before, Castiel morosely made his way towards the courtyard he'd come from. Pretty much all the buildings had at least one door that opened onto it, and it was the main rest stop for people either visiting or taking a lunch break or just killing time between classes. Since it was raining, and most people had seemingly decided to take long weekends (whether their professors had decided the same or not), the courtyard was empty.

Well, almost empty. There was one guy just kind of wandering around, peering into doorways and tracing stones and not really looking like he had any purpose at all. His short hair was plastered to his head, and he didn't have a hood on his jacket (which was leather, and rather cracked at that). His jeans were stained with some dark stuff, probably ink. He looked a lot like an art student, from what Castiel saw around campus. Art students tended to look tired (check), have colorful and/or black stains on their pants and shirts (check), and have a sort of artsy/punky/weirdly intimidating aura about them (triple check). These factors, plus the whole Castiel-bumping-into-him-on-the-way-to-class thing that happened not five minutes ago, made Cas really want to just pull up his collar and fast-walk past the guy.

He tried. Honest, he did. It's just that Castiel was never the best fast-walker and the guy sort of got in his way while he was fumbling around with his collar. It was totally the guy's fault this time when Castiel walked into him. Should've been looking where he was going.

"Oh, geez," Castiel sputtered, grabbing onto the guy's shoulders to steady himself and then quickly letting go and blushing for some reason. (You idiot.)

Thankfully, the guy laughed. "You again? I'm starting to think you really like me." He looked Castiel up and down, expression thoughtful, before sticking out his hand. "Dean. Soon-to-be-student. Do you go here?"

(Don't do anything stupid, Castiel. This guy is really nice and his name is Dean and you've always liked Deans. Don't do anything stupid.)

"I'm Castiel," Castiel said, shaking Dean's hand. (It was calloused and warm and slightly damp from the rain.) "Yeah, I go here. Class was canceled, though. I can show you around, if you want."

Dean let go of Castiel's hand and crossed his arms, looking around him for a few seconds before shrugging. "Naw, I think I've seen most of what there is to see. I can check the rest of the place out when I know I'm actually coming here. Also, dude, you said when you bumped into me the first time that you had to take the bus. I have a car, if you need a ride."

Castiel felt like falling to his knees and kissing Dean's shoes. For the absolute piece of shit this day started out as, it was really turning out to be something a lot better. Like a nice watch encased in shit. And the shit was being washed off by rain.

"I would love a ride, Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't look at me like that

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yes, one thing. The title is 100% inspired from The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel. Give it a listen if you feel like it, it's a really good song. 
> 
> (The fic is more inspired because I really like regular Joe AUs and mechanic!Dean.)


End file.
